


but a fairy tale would would end with a wedding

by daredoll



Category: Descendants (Disney Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, can you tell I love the sea 3 ??, captain hook ?? world's worst father and a violent piece of shit ?? yeah., the lost revenge isn't a passenger ship but it's home
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-02-11 11:59:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12934809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daredoll/pseuds/daredoll
Summary: and the book would close and all would live happily ever after.





	1. like you're the ocean

**Author's Note:**

> before I begin I feel like I need to apologize to chad charming for a little defamation of character. also this chapter includes non-graphic references to attempted murder and an instance of abuse by a mother toward her daughter just as a warning!

It was such a lovely story, her mother would crow, and Evie would bow her head modestly, the hint of a smile on her face.

(big smiles caused wrinkles, and no prince wanted to marry a haggard girl)

Like a fairy tale, the queen would continue.

( but was she a queen with no kingdom or castle of her own? A queen usurped from her throne by her step-daughter after a nasty assassination attempt. A queen who begged for shelter for her and her lovely daughter at the feet of a charming king.)

A charming prince and the fairest in the land, she’d say, and Evie would cant her head demurely. “The second fairest, mama, for your beauty far outshines even mine.” She has said it so many times that she can scarcely remember what it means, the phonetics running into each other so that they are mere sounds not even real words

(deep eyes and unblemished skin and hair that shines like a raven’s wing--- her looks make her a hypocrite, for to say anyone might shine brighter could only be a lie.)

But a fairy tale would end with a wedding and the book would close and all would live _**happily ever after**_.

 

She’s been out to sea for three days, and her stomach feels as if it has begun to turn on itself, cramping in its emptiness. Breathing itself is enough to exhaust her, the constant treading of water and fingers clutching so tightly to the driftwood she'd miraculously found has stripped her of all energy. Most of all her throat burns for something, anything to quench her thirst. There’s water all around her, so cruel in its temptation, and she would scream if it weren’t for her throat being so raw already. Her cheeks burn, too, the sun only aggravating the shallow wounds further than they already pained her.

She can’t live like this much longer.

(she doesn’t want to die.) 

And then--- then the blur of a ship appears on the horizon, and surely she must be hallucinating. It grows closer and closer maddeningly slowly, but it’s there. It’s there!

Her throat tastes of iron, but she forces it open to scream, and rips one hand from its death grip on the only thing holding her afloat to thrash it wildly in the air. She doesn’t know how long she’s yelling and waving and begging that they see her, but somehow her strength doesn’t fail her before she can see the outlines of bodies on the ship’s deck.

“Help! Please!” Please let them hear her. Please let them save her. Her eyes scan from the figures to the sail, and the setting sun allows her to see their pennant. **_Pirates_** _._

Four days ago she would have been terrified as she sees a small rowboat being lowered into the water and the remnants of yells from the ship meeting her ears, but now, well, it’s better than dying at sea. Maybe they’ll be kind enough to run her through rather than prolong her suffering. She almost smiles at that, but the twitch in her cheeks is only a reminder of---

There’s three, no two, men on the smaller boat rowing towards her. One is absolutely massive, is all. It gets closer and closer, and she nearly loses her voice to fear rather than hoarseness. What are they going to do to her?

“Ahoy!” the massive man calls once she can see their faces. His blonde hair gleams in the low sun and a boyish smile splits his features. Evie wishes she could see his eyes, if there’s concern there or just greed.

“Ahoy,” she repeats, her voice cracking. She’s prepared for this, she reminds herself. It’s why she’s still wearing her bracelets and earrings and her tiara is tucked in her corset. It’s why even when she shed her beautiful gown (oh, she’d loved that dress, but it was so confoundedly heavy) she’d ripped the lace from its seams before sacrificing it to the deep. She’s worth something, in riches at least, even if not in beauty.

The boat reaches her, finally, and she could cry if she thought she had any fluid left in her body. She assesses the men in it and decides that she likes the big one. There’s heart in his brown eyes. “Give me your hand,” he offers, his already outstretched, the muscles rippling up his arm thoroughly impressive. Her eyes flicker from his eyes to the driftwood. She’ll never be able to pull herself up onto the boat, even with help. Her arms are more noodle than bone.

“I’m too weak,” she stutters, and the man’s shipmate chuckles.

“It’s okay. I eat four dozen eggs each morning; I can pull you up.” He says it so simply, like eating four dozen eggs isn’t abnormal or anything, that she only hesitates a moment before giving him her hand. He lifts her, sodden undergarments and all, from the water like she weighs nothing more than a sack of flour, and sets her on the bench between he and his crewmate. For a moment all she can do is stare at him in awe.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, wrapping her hands around her chest, both out of modesty and as some protection from the sea air. Evie can’t decide if she’s more cold out of the water than she was in it, but either way she can’t stop her limbs from trembling. “You saved my life.”

“The captain saved your life,” the other pirate huffs, motioning with a nod of his head for Gil to start rowing back. Evie likes him decidedly less, at least until he pushes a canteen into her hand. “She sends her regards.”

Instantly the princess presses it to her lips, taking long gulps of the water, no ladylike sips. It’s maybe the best thing she’s ever tasted, and as she drinks everything else melts away apart from her and the water. Even then it’s gone too soon; she thinks she could drink an entire ocean if she could.

“Better?” the blonde asks, low enough that the other man won’t hear him. Evie nods shyly, glancing up to find that they’re nearly close enough to the ship for the boat to be hauled up again. The man truly was a marvel.

“The captain, is she,” she searches for words, her voice hoarse and ugly, “fair?”

“You’ll see,” the dark-haired pirate responds sharply from behind her, shooting the blonde a look before he can say anything else. Ropes and rigging fall from the upper deck, and the two men scramble to get everything settled and connected. So begins the ascent, jerked up notch after notch, and when they eventually reach the deck, Evie feels exponentially sicker.

The smaller man leaps nimbly from the boat, landing on the deck with a solid thump. The blonde is slower, maneuvering his thick limbs with less grace as he ambles out. She notices he flashes a wide smile out at his mates, but she’s too nervous to follow his gaze. Losing her dress to the depths had been necessary, she knows, but meeting a mess of pirates in little but her slip made it that much harder to conjure respect. She imagines she looks like a drowned rat, trembling in her place as she is. She slides to the edge, peering over it. The deck looks miles away for her weak muscles. Seeing her worry, the blonde’s hands go to her waist, as respectful as he can be, before lifting her up and then down to the deck. “Thank you,” she offers him again, before looking up to the crew finally.

Immediately, her eyes find the captain. Perhaps not grand of stature, the woman practically commands you look at her just in her posture. Long braids and sure eyes and a wide stance that denies any challenge, this is what a pirate captain should look like. She’s impressed, even as she forces all timidity from her bones. Evie is the daughter of a witch and a king, and now is where she proves it.

Where her first step should be sure, when the blonde man sets her down and removes his support, she collapses, looking altogether more like a newborn fawn attempting its first steps than a regal princess. He catches her arm before her knees crash against the wood, but she’s shaken, clearly. “Got you,” he murmurs in reassurance, and she hears two sets of boots approaching. _She has to get herself together._

“Captain,” she says, voice ragged, before anyone else can, aching fingers nimbly pulling out the lace she’d kept safe in her sleeves. Dropping her head in the closest she can to a bow she offers the expensive fabric to her. Looking up, her hair obscures part of her vision, but at least it’s enough to hide the slick cuts underscoring her cheekbones. “Thank you for your aid. It’s Charm lace, only the best.”

The captain’s face stutters to a smile, a laugh bursting past her lips like cannon fire. She looks back over her shoulder and her grin morphs into a smirk. “See, Harry, I told you she would have good manners.”

A man steps forward out of her shadow, the second set of boots she’d heard. There’s something in his eyes that’s unsettling, and she nearly flinches as he steps forward to take the lace from her. He tuts as he runs it through his fingers, barely glancing to her face before shifting back to the woman, his crimson overcoat fluttering in the sea breeze. “Aye, ye were right, Uma. My _Da_ would be impressed.” Something in his voice implies that he is not.

“There’s more, of course.” Her hands go to her ears, her neck, and to her wrists, plucking off the jewelry one after another until she’s offering a half a fortune in her palms. “For my life.” Evie offers before they can take, and the captain gives her an unreadable look as she approaches and reaches for an earring studded with rubies. She motions for one of her crew to collect them, and Evie’s hands are bare again, except for her left ring finger.

“These are some beautiful baubles,” Uma comments, before looking back up to the blonde’s face. “What did you drag out of the ocean this time, Gil?”

Gil shrugs easily, and she can just see the red-clad man roll those eerie eyes of his.

“Evaine Grimhilde, Princess of Cenerentola,” she answers for him, bite in the last set of words. There’s nothing she wants from her husband anymore, except for perhaps a cruel and painful revenge, but she’s keeping her title. Evie won’t let it be stolen from her twice. 

Harry laughs, and again there’s something eerie in it. It only hardens her further, her gaze calm and unyielding. After the last three days, the last thing she’ll allow to scare her is a mad pirate. From behind his back he withdraws a hook, placing it under her left hand and holding it, or rather the Charming family jewel, to the light of the setting sun. She notices it isn’t in place of a hand, but rather held by one, and Evie’s brain races. There was only one pirate family famed for that curved metal. “Gil, ye did something right,” he comments, a proud smirk marking his features.

_ Damn Chadwick for this. _

“How long were you at sea, princess?” Captain Uma asks, just beginning to circle her. A drowned rat becomes a treasure, Evie can’t help but think, and God, is she tired of being someone’s property.

“Three moons.”

“Three moons?” There’s concern in Gil’s voice as he repeats it, and Evie is especially validated to see that there’s amazed disbelief in Harry’s. Magic runs through her blood as it did her mother’s, and they should be amazed.

A step closer, and Hook is just inching into her personal space as his captain stops her circling to stand smugly beside Gil. “Now, Uma, I imagine that wee little prince would pay just about anything tae get his pretty lass back,” he sneers, but it doesn’t exactly have the menacing effect she suspects he expected it to.

In fact she can’t help but laugh in his face, cold and hurt and deathly close to becoming a wail if she hadn’t caught it in time. He doesn’t back away, but she can see the confusion in his stormy eyes, and setting him off-kilter gives her enough courage to shake her wet hair off her face. She hasn’t seen them in three days, but she can’t imagine that the sea and sun has done anything to help the look of the scars her jealous mother carved into her countenance. 

Her ochre eyes flick back to those of the blonde and his gentle support and then to the captain, before boring straight into the silver depths of the man before her. “Aye, I imagine he would if that wee little prince hadn’t been the one to have her thrown overboard,” she counters, cool grin aching at the sore skin of her cheeks but never waning. He backs away then, but his expression isn’t what she expects. She wants revulsion or pity or hate, and she gets it--- to a degree. But then his jaw clenches and his hand balls into a fist, and she can’t follow his emotions when he turns away from her.

Looking back to Gil, she’s surprised by his face, there’s pity there but mostly just sadness. It’s the first time someone’s seen her like that and not been proud, like her mother, or revolted, like her husband, and suddenly she doesn’t feel so aggressive. Suddenly she’s just tired and hurt, and when Uma clears her throat there might even be tears in her eyes when she looks to her.

“And your---” the captain gestures vaguely, any cunning grin gone and replaced by something quieter, maybe something like understanding.

“My mother wanted no competition to be fairest of them all,” she supplies quietly, the adrenaline waning as she remembers how much her throat hurts. “And no prince wants an ugly wife.”

Again, Evie can’t read exactly what’s in the captain’s eyes, but the woman motions for Hook and they share hushed words before she looks to Gil, something passing between them nonverbally to which he offers an eager nod. Finally the three look to her, or at least Gil and Captain Uma do (unsettling eyes only look to the sea, but he stands with them so it must mean something). “This isn’t a passenger ship; everyone on the Lost Revenge contributes something. But it can be your home, too, until you find where you need to be.”


	2. ii.

First she sleeps, on a pallet on the floor because she’s still too weak to even hoist herself into a bunk, and the captain allows her a space in her quarters. When she wakes after what feels like it must be days, there is a bowl of cold meal beside it along with a jug of water, both of which manage to taste better than anything else that’s ever graced her lips. She finds a pair of breeches and a blue cotton shirt stacked folded next to her, along with clean undergarments and a lace of leather that she uses to tie her hair up high on her head. Donning the clothes she can’t help but notice how coarse everything feels on her skin, but there’s more mobility in the oversize shirt with its billowing sleeves than anything else she’s ever worn. The princess slowly folds the blanket allowed her, glancing up only to see a looking glass reflection staring back at her. Tears threaten to well as she brings up a single finger to trace what will soon be scars.

She can’t stay here in this room, being haunted by the sight of her own face.

Evie struggles to get to her feet and stumbles across the room before managing to pull open the heavy wooden door. She finds the path to what she hopes is the deck, bare feet padding on solid wood as she reaches the stairs. The sun is blinding as she emerges on deck, and she has to shade her eyes with her hand, looking desperately for a face she might recognize. Instead, the captain’s voice calls to her from the upper deck and she twirls to catch sight of her. She makes out the forms of Hook, Gil, and Captain Uma silhouetted against the sun, but the quick movement paired with the rock of the ship sets her stomach rolling. In a moment she’s scrambling to the edge of the deck and retching over the side. She swears she can hear Uma’s voice carry across the wood. “This is going to be a lot of work, isn’t it?”

Second, she swabs the deck, day after day after day. It’s backbreaking labour perfect for the crew member with the least amount of seniority aboard the vessel, and most importantly it is a simple enough task that even she can’t muck it up. After a few days of easing herself into the rhythm of the ocean below her and the crudeness around her, it becomes easier. Her pallet is moved to the crew’s quarters, and although it’s full to the brim with pirates, she comes to find she likes it, mostly for the distraction of it all. What was once her tiara, now transfigured back to its original form as the last shard of her mother’s magic mirror (and hidden away beneath her garb each day), is all she has left of her past life aside from the scars on her cheeks and scored into her tender heart.

Falling asleep is simple enough at first, as she’s so exhausted from the work and struggling to find a place she might fit among the rest of the crew. Even at her mother’s worst, having been outcast from their kingdom for treason and forced to make their own charity, Evie’s never done so much in one day as she does on the _Lost Revenge_. Crawling into her pallet each night her arms ache and her eyes slip closed before she can even consider insomnia, lulled into slumber by the snores around her. Slowly, though, she becomes accustomed to the sweeping motions of her daily chore, finds something like amiable silence among the rest of the crew, and she is no longer so exhausted by the end of each night. When the distraction of weariness is gone she misses the girl she was so much it aches in the center of her chest, and every reflective surface cruelly reminds her how that princess has withered away.

As if her mind racing through everything that has happened in the last month is not enough, she must suffer an unending amount of questions that plague her, her mind unsatisfied under the cover of darkness with the meager answers she’s come up with during the daylight hours.

(What did she do wrong? Had she made herself too pretty? Could she have tempered her natural looks somehow so that her mother might have been content to see her as only nearly as beautiful as her? And Chadwick, could she have made him love her? Had she been more alluring would he still have kept her as his wife? Worst of all, was she really so ugly now that she deserved what he had done to her?)

But even the questions aren’t enough, the mental self-flagellation not enough because when sleep comes it does not come quietly like she hopes. Even at rest her brain is not satisfied until it has reminded her what awful means have brought her to this end. Her nightmares are just memories, but somehow that only makes them worse.

 

_It hurts like nothing she’s ever felt before, the blade piercing the soft skin of her cheek, and she tries to jerk upright. Her limbs are heavy, and she would recognize her mother’s work anywhere, just as she forces her heavy lids to open, just as she sees her mother’s eyes, so like her own, peering down at her._

_“Mama,” the princess shudders, pupils dilating with fear as her mother only coos and moves the blade to the other side. She had never honestly believed that her mother would harm her (Or at least not so much that anyone might notice. There were always the potions and bought charms her mother would lavish on her, but those had at least been justified. They had burned at her skin and stolen breath from her lungs, but only to make her prettier, deadlier. They had never left bruises or scars, had never done anything to mar her perfect skin.), but this paralysis in her limbs she recognizes from her mother’s book of poisons. It’s one of the few that the queen had never forced her to build a tolerance to. Finally Evaine knows why._

_“Close your eyes sweet,” the evil (former) queen hums, but it’s more impulse than obedience that forces them closed. Her scream would be blood-curdling if---_

 

No, she’s not doing this again. **_Never again_ **.

Evie jerks awake, frantically attempting to calm her breathing lest anyone catch her causing a scene. Luckily among the many muffled sleeping noises of the crew and the rhythmic rock of the ship, no one else awakens, but there really is no point in attempting to fall back asleep, especially when she can see the sky just beginning to grow a morning gray through their quarters’ porthole. Honestly, she doesn’t even want to try sleeping again for fear of another dream like the one she had, and she dresses quietly and almost thankfully in the near darkness. It’s too early and too cool to begin swabbing, and so she slips her calloused feet into thick warm socks and second-hand boots. A clean pair of black breeches, her mirror tucked safely into the waist, and the same cobalt shirt from her first day aboard are pulled on next. Her braid is still safely and rather neatly in tact, it wasn’t as if she had much time to disturb it in the few hours she spent sleeping.

She slips up to the deck, her legs now as used to the rock of the ship as they once were on land, and she takes solace in the silence around her. There are a few stray pirates working at this hour, she knows, one in the crow’s nest and another at the helm, but for the most part she is at least a little alone. That is the worst part about the _Lost Revenge_ , the complete and total lack of personal space or utter privacy. Maybe that’s why she’s found herself so quiet lately, the only place she can keep to herself being her own mind.

The princess doesn’t speak to anyone, at least not regularly. Some of the crew, thankfully the minority of them at least, took it as a slight against them, as her being conceited and classist. “A princess among pirates, how ghastly!” she’d heard Harry Hook mock once, his voice high and feminine despite his brogue working against it, smirking as a few of his mates chuckled. He’d thought himself out of her earshot, but had glanced up to spot her watching him coolly. Evie’s expression had hardened as their eyes had met, and she hadn’t been able to catch herself before offering him a rather vulgar hand motion before whipping her ponytail around as she’d turned and strode off.

There were a few that she liked, Gil being first among them. Even with his rippling muscles and towering height it was impossible for her to fear him or even distrust him with a boyish grin so commonly on his face. He greets her in the galley most mornings, sliding in beside her at the table on his way to sit with their captain, and she’d offer him half a biscuit or a hard-boiled egg she hadn’t had time to eat herself. Sometimes she felt as if she was only bribing him into friendship with her, especially when she’d catch herself mid-titter of laughter with eyes boring through her.

It was always Uma and Harry studying the two. Gil would be oblivious, she imagined being so agreeable made it hard to forge enemies, and with friends like the captain and first mate there was likely little he had to look out for. Evie could not relate, had learned to pick up on glances and stares far before most. She knew what it felt like to be hated, shunned, and distrusted, and the familiar feeling always crawled up her spine with the other two pirates’ eyes on her. The princess did her best to ignore them, to look back to Gil and smile at his words of gratitude before he was beckoned back to his (real) friends.

“It’s not right for a pirate tae be afraid of their mistress.” The voice startles her from thoughts as deep as the ocean below her, and she jerks away from the rail of the ship with her heart pounding in her chest. For as frightening as the legend surrounding the man in front of her is, seeing that it is only Harry Hook behind her is a relief. As deadly as he is there is only one of him, after all. His eyes widen, and his voice is much softer (a nice break from the disdain usually tainting it while around her) when he speaks again. “The sea, I mean.”

It reminds her uncomfortably of the way Chadwick had soothed her horse down from hysterics the day they had first met.

 

(She’d been for a ride in the forest, one of the few pleasures she’d had left after they fled their kingdom. The bugle’s call of a hunting troupe had frightened her mare into bolting, her mount growing only more agitated upon nearly running into a straggler of the group. She’d been knocked off as the horse bucked, surely only moments away from being trampled until the other rider dismounted, whispering sweet nothings to the creature. The man was able to grab her reins, and a whinny was the mare’s last protest as she calmed.

His golden curls had shone nearly as bright as his crown in the sunlight peeking through the leaves as he’d turned to her, and she’d been lovestruck. He knelt down beside her, taking her slender hand in his larger one and queried on her health. Even after being thrown from her seat, her dark waves framed her face beautifully, the gold in her eyes lit by the same light as his hair, and she was truly the fairest girl he had ever seen. It was love at first sight.

Or, at least that’s what all the rumours said, villagers enamoured with a tale so similar to the one they’d heard nearly two decades ago. King Charming had first met his love on horseback, too. Surely it was fate, this repeating of history. A penniless beauty finding her gentle prince. If only Prince Chadwick had had half of his father’s character rather than twice his vanity.)

 

Evie shivers at the memory, but manages not to flinch away as the pirate joins her at the rail. (She already feels far too much like an animal lately, quick to startle and wary of everything.) He keeps a safe amount of space between them, of that she’s grateful, but she has to wrack her mind to remember what kind of a response he was waiting for. _Oh_. “The sea,” she muses aloud, canting her head as she considers it fondly. “I don’t fear her. She was kind to me those three days.” For a moment she wonders if she should continue with the words on her lips, but surely he already sees her as weak so it’s not as if she’s staining some grand reputation.

“It’s men that I’m afraid of,” the princess admits, keeping sad eyes trained on the waves. He’s quiet for awhile, and she waits for laughter or a condescending remark to come. Her eyes flicker to him when neither comes.

“Ye have more than a right tae feel that way, I think,” he says finally, meeting her gaze with eyes as unreadable as the skies after a storm. She wonders if all pirates are taught to hide their thoughts so well or whether it’s simply those aboard the _Lost Revenge_ who are so adept at it. Feeling exposed in comparison, she looks back to the water. Words she’s been holding onto so tight are slipping out of her grasp before she can stop them, but why, of all times, did they have to come out in front of the boy she can never figure out?

“It was supposed to be our honeymoon.” A bubble of mirthless laughter turns her stomach. She continues in a voice more like a whisper. She’s relived it so many times already, but it’s different, explaining. Everything’s sharper, clearer in her memory.

“There was four of them, Chad’s personal guard.” Dane had been her favorite, quick to smile at her if she looked unsure. Henry had been quieter, more aloof; he made up for his silence with sheer strength. Michael and Merrick were loud and arrogant, always competing with each other for attention from the courtiers. She had always felt so secure when she and Chadwick had been flanked by them. No one could hurt her while they were there to protect the royal couple. Until they were the ones doing the hurting.

“I was alone in my chamber. He hadn’t wanted to share his bed with me once he’d seen---” Evie finds she can’t finish that sentence, acknowledge how much she’d disgusted him. She takes a deep and shuddering breath and leaves it open-ended. Harry’s as handsome as he is wicked; he would understand.

“They didn’t say anything, just took hold of my arms and dragged. I didn’t know what was happening. I didn’t understand.” Her heart’s beating faster now, the memory so vivid she can practically feel their fingers digging into her skin. “I started to kick and scream and try to get free, but Henry just threw me over his shoulder and kept going. The twins held my legs down and Dane, he forced my wrists together.” That had hurt, the cold in his eyes; her favorite hadn’t cared about her at all. Evie should have known they held no loyalty to her.

“What could I do, really? They were so massive.”  Finally her voice cracks, and she can feel Hook’s eyes on her. She can’t look at him. She’ll cry if she looks at him, and then he’ll have another reason to mock her. They all will.

“I screamed Chad’s name over and over.” What a stupid girl, she’s sure they’d say. She thought he would love her when she looked like that? She thought she deserved _love_ ? **_Safety?_ ** What a joke this princess was.

“He shut his door before they threw me in.” It’s a small detail, in the grand scheme of things, but it’s what forces her to blink her tears back. It was so simple for her husband to just shut her out, to have the apathy to ignore what he thought would be his wife’s last moments alive.

To her right, the pirate shifts, and she watches him weigh his hook in his hand from the peripheral of her vision. It’s more words than she’s said in the last three weeks, and Evie regrets them already. This is why she should stay silent and mysterious. Finally, when she’s about to force herself to step away, Hook begins to fumble with the sash and belts around his hips. Evie turns to watch, leans her side into the railing. A stray sea breeze catches a loose curl from her plait, the navy strands looking rather fetching against the ocean’s sister hue. At least some part of her is still fair.

From his waist, Harry withdraws a crimson handled dagger, flipping it into the air to catch it neatly by the blade. Looking up, his dark locks, loose from his regular hat and bandanna, are messy above clear eyes, but for the first time those eyes don’t unnerve her. He offers her the weapon nobly, and cants his head as she takes it from him without a word. Before she can begin to tuck it away, one of his rope worn-hands catches her wrist, and he locks his gaze with hers.

“If any man puts his hands on ye again, cut them off.”

A shiver runs up her spine at his suggestion, but his tone is too serious to be brushed off. Evie nods, dark eyes still caught in his, and he mirrors the gesture before releasing her. To distract herself from the exchange, how suddenly with the weight of iron in her hands she doesn’t feel quite as vulnerable, she fusses at her own waist, securing the dagger there. Again she can feel him watching her movements, like some kind of predator just waiting for her to slip, but rather than strike her down he simply asks a question before slipping away.

“And the day we come upon the Cenerentola Star, will ye be the one tae cut out his heart or can I have the honor?”

 

Things get better after that morning. It’s slow at first, her shoulders gradually feeling lighter without a history weighing them down. She notices things, too. How her skin has tanned under the searing sun, how its rays have brought forth cornflower highlights in her tresses, and especially the sprinkling of freckles growing across her shoulders and the bridge of her nose. When she catches sight of herself in a looking glass a week or so later she finds, maybe not a prim princess, but someone new, someone she doesn’t entirely dislike. The more she sees herself, the more she sees her beauty has perhaps not been torn away, but had only been hiding as she had been. The sun has made her healthier, the new strength has chiseled her features and limbs, and even with the silver scars marking her face, she might even be pretty again. Evie decides she likes this new girl she is growing into.

It isn’t anything that Hook has done, she tells herself. He has nothing to do with it. Except in some part, perhaps he does. ( she’s grown on her own. learned to begin to love herself again on her own. started to stop blaming herself on her own. but it did all begin with one pirate listening, and above all not saying anything she expected him to. ) Hook isn’t any better, not really. He still snickers when she turns her nose up at pickled eels, and rolls those eyes like a cloudy sky when he catches her preening in some reflective surface. He doesn’t like her, the first mate makes that abundantly clear whenever he gets the chance. And yet, if any member of the crew raises their voice at her, Hook always seems to appear just in time to haul them away with a cruel smile promising a reprimand. When the weather is turbulent, he’s the first down to the crew’s quarters to warn her of it. They aren’t friends. Harry Hook does not care about her, but he does look out for her. Maybe that’s even better.

( or at least that’s what she tells herself late at night when stormy eyes haunt her dreams. that’s what she tells herself when his voice causes her breath to catch in her throat. that’s what she tells herself when a part of her broken heart starts to ache at just one accidental brush of his fingers against her skin. she isn’t going to fall again. she won’t let herself. ~~and yet, she’s slipping~~. )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A TWO-SHOT THE FUCK.
> 
> it's probably going to end up being a four-shot ??? captain (commodore) hook is gonna appear next and !!! it'll be in harry's viewpoint !!!
> 
> also @harry violence is not romance but uh thanks for trying (also ??? maybe think about liking someone you offered to murder for ?? idk just think about it )


	3. teaser !

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> y'all i am so sorry this has taken me so long but muse for this fic has been highkey avoiding me !! since i think i am going to need a little bit to rearrange how i thought this might turn out i'm going to post a teaser of what to look forward to!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the full chapter should be out in about a week at the most so thanks for your patience !! love y'all and if you could comment what you think might happen next, what you're looking forward to, please do !

She can feel the unease on the deck, the anxiety like mist gathering on the ship. She stands behind the three, her curiosity drawing her forward where the rest of the crew shrinks back. There’s the barest trembling shaking Gil’s form, barely noticeable if she weren’t so close to him. Hook’s sharp jaw is clenched, his posture uncharacteristically rigid. Even his stormy eyes are reigned in, no longer unsettling but simply hard. Uma is the only one who looks the same, unflappable and an easy smile quirking her lips. The only hint that she might be nervous is the extra bite to her grin, teeth glinting like a shark’s in the sun’s glare. 

The  _ Jolly Roger _ is imposing from its spot anchored next to the  _ Lost Revenge _ , beginning to cast a grim shadow over them as the other ship’s crew works to stretch wooden planks between the two vessels for crossing. A squat, portly man with white hair and a jaunty red cap comes across first, teetering a few times before making it all the way, and he holds the board steady as the most fearsome man to sail the seven seas struts aboard. Blood-red overcoat and long curling hair like onyx, streaks of gray barely frosting it, beneath a crimson wide-brimmed hat, even without seeing the stark silver hook in place of his hand one would know Captain James Hook immediately. A shiver runs up her spine, and the chill remains in her bones as he approaches, flanked by a few fearsome pirates of his own. 

It seems that Hook would address his son first, grant him some form of dark affection, any expression of fondness, but no. He stalks to Uma first, tips his grand hat in a gallant bow and offers her a toothy grin. Uma stays cool as the steel at her side, only dipping her head slightly as her lips pull into a sure smirk. “Commodore. What a surprise. What brings you so far from Neverland?”

“Does a pirate need reason to pay a visit to his only son?” The man’s eyes narrow slightly as ice blue connects with identical ones set in a younger face, but the grin never falters before a rumbling laugh cracks through it. The laughter is cruel, and Evie watches Harry’s jaw clench even further, almost painfully so. ( It’s uncommon for him to so control his temper. ) “There’s a very tempting rumor traveling the seas. I want the  _ Revenge _ in on the plan ,” he explains deviously, making it abundantly clear what a joke the first explanation offered had been. 

“Son,” the man finally says, shifting his attention to Harry. His eyes barely skim over Gil, the brawny lad clearly nothing but muscle in Hook’s eyes. Even then, the single word carries with it no fondness, almost mocking in how flippantly he tosses it. For his part, Harry takes it like a stray to scraps, and from her place behind them, out of the pirate’s line of sight, she can watch Harry, read the warring feelings run up his spine as it straightens so imperceptibly. She wonders if Hook even notices how thirsty his son is for his respect, his acknowledgement. ( She wonders if her own mother could read it in her, see just how much Evie would have done for her love, to please her. Was that why Grimhilde could scar her so easily? Because she knew that her daughter still would be unable to hate her even after that ultimate betrayal? ) 

But perhaps she is thinking too loudly, a habit the queen had constantly reprimanded her for. It unsettled men, her mother warned. They could never trust a woman whose mind worked as diligently as her open mouth. Before he can continue his assessment of his son, Hook surveys their crew and locks eyes with her. His jaunty, disarmingly sinister charisma slips, a grimace curls his lips below a dark mustache, and he brushes Gil out of his way with a flippant slap to his impressive bicep. 

For a moment of startling clarity she wonders what she expected. Had she truly assumed anything less than the disdain James Hook’s eyes gleam with, so similar to the look the crew had fixed her with when Gil had dragged her from the ocean and set her on their deck? Two months on a pirate ship has made her no less a princess, has certainly not carved a swashbuckler out of her trained grace. She stands as if on pointe, each foot making the strokes of a T, certainly not the wide, ready stances of the rest of the crew. Her fingers laced behind her back, genteel and docile, are nothing like the sure hands settled on hips or arms crossed across strong chests. She doesn’t fit, has done so little to mold herself in their image, and she had been vain enough to think it strength.

“And what is this?” There’s a sinister touch to the innocent question, demanding in meaning even if not necessarily in tone. If possible the three tense further before following his gaze behind them. He takes the steps towards her, and it takes all her royal will to not step back, to remain upright rather than cower in fear. She had thought Harry terrifying enough with his penchant to disregard personal space, but she sees now from where the habit came. Again she must remind herself who she is, whose daughter she is. ( Royal blood and magic palms somehow seem little comfort for the cruel curve of a dangerous hook. )


	4. iii.

“Princess,” Uma hollers as Evie slips into the galley, hair braided at the nape of her neck and the sudden call catching her with one hand rubbing sleep from her eyes. Harry Hook doesn’t try to hide the smirk sneaking onto his face at uncertainty written on her features as captain and first mate beckon her to their table. She approaches warily, collecting a plate of food on her way. The two study her like sharks circling blood as she moves to sit opposite them, waiting only for the perfect moment to bite. Harry is especially menacing as he toys with the tip of the hook in his hand. They are silent, until finally she clears her throat and ducks her blue head to poke at the eels on her plate with only the purest look of  disgust. 

“Sorry we’re fresh out o’ caviar, princess,” Hook  mutters with just a _hint_ of annoyed disdain.

“Even you can’t like---” Evie can feel her red lip literally curling, “ **this**.” 

Uma snickers, something like agreement even as she digs into her plate. The first mate lowers his hook to set it on the table beside him and spears a chunk of the grub on his knife before swallowing with theatrical gusto.

“With Sammy as cookie, this is the best we’re gonna get,” he complains almost proudly, as if suffering through this awful food was like a badge of honor.

“Does Sammy have to be cookie?” Evie replies, just as easily, a sly smile gracing her lips along with an idea she liked much more than swabbing the deck.

“Cookies?” Gil interrupts, slinging one leg and then the other across the bench to settle himself next to Evie and across from his mates. A boyish grin lights his features, and something eager and light in it, too. Uma looks to Harry, then to Evie, and without any other word the three burst into laughter. Laughter like this is unfamiliar to her, being close enough to anyone to be able to share this. Gil, too, only pauses for a moment before joining in with a hearty chuckle of his own, perhaps not knowing exactly what had started theirs but also eager to join in the fun.

It’s a nice moment, and Evie feels her heart swell. Perhaps she had not only been bribing Gil into friendship with her. Perhaps the thing in captain and first mate’s eyes had not been hate, but only interest, curiosity. ~~Perhaps this really could become a home.~~

 

“I’ve never heard of a princess cooking,” Uma’s voice rings clear through the kitchen, nearly startling Evie from her current task. Wiping a hand on her makeshift apron, the aforementioned princess tucks a lock of hair behind her ear as she turns her head away from the cutting board, pausing to leave a pile of potatoes half chopped upon it.

“Just don’t ask me to bake,” she replies wryly. Returning her attention to the knife in her hand and the starch on her board, she continues. “But you’re an intelligent woman. I’m sure you know exactly what kind of princess I am.”

There’s a pause, one where Evie imagines the captain tips her head in agreement, and as she dices another potato, the heels of familiar boots click closer until out of the corner of her eye she can see Uma hoisting herself onto the edge of the worn tabletop, right next to the collection of spices Evie herself had transfigured from flour with the help of a certain magic mirror. 

“So how much is true?” Uma asks, watching her work intently. It’s a fair question, one that even a fair mind struggles to encompass. Further avoidance seems ridiculous, really, but there is so much to unpack. She slices through two more potatoes as she thinks, finally finishing off the pile.

“More than you would think, probably.” Nimble fingers toss handfuls of the starchy cubes into a huge pot she had spent days scouring from a previous and disastrous attempt at cooking by Sammy. ( To say that the young man had been excited to be relieved of his kitchen duty was quite an understatement. If he wasn’t as sweet of a st. bernard of a boy, lumbering and loyal and slow, she might have wrung his neck at the disarray he had left the kitchen she had inherited in. ) “My father  _ was _ the king. A few of the rumours say I’m a bastard, but I’m not.” Another handful. “Mama didn’t kill him, at least outright. The coup went about exactly as the gossip says.”

“And your stepsister?” Uma prods, interest sparkling in her dark eyes. “Did you really curse her to be barren until you weren’t?” At this Evie does laugh, astonished as she finishes adding in all the potatoes and moves to fill the pot with water before they’re set to boil on the grand wood burning stove. Uma’s eyes go wide. “Princess! Watch the water! We only have so much out here.”

“There’s still plenty left, check for yourself.” Shaking her head, Evie can barely hide a rather knowing smile as she watches her captain leap down to do exactly that. Wasn’t it odd that the  _ Lost Revenge _ had a surplus of fresh water since the daughter of a witch had joined its crew? A fortunate coincidence, wasn’t it. “Half-sister, and no. I could never curse Snow.”

“So you  _ could _ curse someone.” And Uma has certainly caught her, hasn’t she? The knowing grin on her lips is proof of that, as she looks up from the one of the water barrels she had been inspecting. 

Evie laughs, real and genuine. Setting the pot on the stove, she wipes both hands on her apron and shakes her head, laughing again at being so oblivious. It wasn’t exactly a secret, but it surely hadn’t been something she had meant to make so plain. “I can do some things with help, yes,” she admits. 

With the help of the magic mirror some magic was possible; mostly magic with recipes, like potions and transfigurations, to be exact.

“Thought so,” Uma hums, coming back to perch again on the table. 

“The daughter of a sea witch would have,” Evie agrees, joining her at the table and beginning to knead at bread dough she had left to rise last night. If Uma is surprised to find that Evie, too, knows of her aquatic ancestry, she does nothing audible to show it. A companionable silence grows between them as the princess works and the captain looks on. 

 

The potatoes done and seasoned, fresh bread out of the coals, and even fish steamed in parchment paper, all seasoned perfectly. A fine feast, at least where pirates were concerned, was set upon the wide tables. It’s her first meal as chef, and more than a few foods are what some might call _magically delicious_. Still, watching the crew barrel in so eagerly, their eyes wide in appreciation, she can’t help but grin with pride. For once the galley smells enticing, and it’s been so long since any aboard have had a good meal. There’s enough to go around, too, and the room quiets as there is little time to talk when one could be instead shoveling food into their mouths. 

Satisfied, and just a little smug, Evie makes a plate up for herself and scans the room for an empty seat. She is surprised to see Uma again waving her towards her table, a warm feeling growing in her chest at being included. She had always wanted friends ( court was not the place to make them, especially when so many of Cenerentola’s ladies had accused her of bewitching Chadwick into falling in love with her. She can’t remember companionship like this since she and Snow had shared secrets in their chambers late at night, sneaking to meet each other after Grimhilde had finally fallen asleep. ) and even more so wanted to be wanted. She slips through the throngs to their table gracefully, ever a lady, and daintily sits across from Harry and again beside Gil.

“Mon dieu, Evie!” the brawny lad exclaims, a piece of cod in each hand as he gestures excitedly. “This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten! Wait, there was this one place. Off the coast of Agrabah. That was maybe the best thing I’ve ever eaten. The curry was so good!---- but this is great, too!”

Evie stifles a laugh behind her hand, quite enjoying his flattery as always even as a bashful look grows on his face. Uma rolls her eyes fondly, reaching to pat his shoulder in a gesture that very clearly meant ‘ shut up, i beg you, before you embarrass yourself further. ’

“Much better than pickled eels,” the captain agrees, and as simple as the words are they feel like some of the best praise she’s ever received. ( That Uma's plate is nearly clean is an especially nice compliment, too. ) And then comes the first mate, Evie looking to him with a cheshire cat’s grin just itching at her lips.

Harry looks almost like a pouting little boy, the way he doesn’t meet her eyes at first, and it’s a new part of him she’s never seen. His hook again lays on the table beside him, so far untouched as she can see crumbs and fish oil on his fingers ( a clear sign that he had been enjoying his supper ). She knows she wants his praise most of all, her heart hammering in her chest in search of some small recognition. Why couldn’t he just fall at her feet like every other man? Why couldn’t he just like her? Finally he meets her eyes, those full lips of his fighting a grimace. He was such a scoundrel,  _ honestly _ .

“Oh, poor Hook,” she teases before he has a chance to say anything. An exaggerated pout on her own features does little to mask the mirth in her eyes. “He misses his eels.” And in a sweeping gesture she withdraws the small parchment packet she had hidden in her apron pocket, tugging at the knot and sending pickled bits of eels tumbling down onto his plate. “Eat up, _lad_.”

The surprise is clear on his face, eyes widening as they shift from the packet to his plate and back up to her incredulously. A smile tugs at his mouth, genuine for one of the few times she has seen it. Uma shrieks in laughter behind them, Gil moving to pat her back to ensure she wouldn’t choke, as he too giggles. That cheshire cat grin completely unfurls on her red lips now, and she simply stares him down.

“Ye got me, princess,” he finally concedes, a low chuckle following the admittance. The way he looks at her is new, and if perhaps her heart flutters a little bit, too, well she’ll allow it to just this once. “Ye’ve made me never want tae eat another eel again.”

 

She can’t help but watch him really, so in his element. Like this he is brilliant, a proud smile softening and yet enhancing his sharp features. He swaggers from cluster to cluster of his crew, his hook now hanging from one of the many belts at his waist, exchanging clasps on shoulders and wry jokes with each set. He reminds her of a prince in his own right, but the sea his court and savagery his domain. Those are forbidden thoughts, though, and Evie sighs to herself, prying her eyes away from Harry Hook and shifting to lean against the stair rail she had been peering over. An attempt to ground herself, distract herself from the cut of his cheekbones and the set of his smirk, she keeps sepia eyes closed as her fingers run through turbulent waves of azure tresses. 

It was a party. She loved parties. And a celebration of a victory free of  _ Revenge _ casualties over another ship was surely the closest she would come to a ball here on these seven seas. She had let her hair down for the occasion, patted beeswax on her already ruby lips and donned the only dress she now owned ( a pretty indigo number she’d sewn from a sack of fine flour she’d found in their own pantry ). She ought to be flitting about herself, dancing to the shanties Sammy was warbling while his brothers, the twins, accompanied on whistle and pot fashioned into a drum, but instead she was mooning over their first mate. Again.  _ As always _ . Why did he have to be so confoundedly handsome? And enthralling. And dangerous in that way a fire was, always daring you to play—— but not too closely. 

And looking up she finds Harry again in her vision, clinking his tankard of ale ( freshly stolen from the loser’s hold, and even sweeter on his tongue for it, she guessed. Not that she should be guessing anything about his tongue. ) against Gonzo’s own, before he spots her, too, taking a long swig of his drink before bringing those swaggering steps closer to her. He raises his glass in greeting, cocking his head as blue eyes scan her empty hands, a lopsided grin growing. It’s enough to take her breath away, if she was the sort of girl to lose her breath to pirates. Which she wasn’t, being a princess and all. 

“Aw, no champagne for our bonnie princess. Poor lass,” he teases, leaning against the rail, too. It’s not as cruel as his taunts used to be, almost fond even, and she cannot help but giggle at it. It feels light, the way he looks at her so uncommonly kindly. Evie shakes her head, smile small on her lips.

“It seemed rude to drink your ale when I didn’t do anything to earn it,” she explains, tipping her head back against the worn wood to look up at him. It was true, too, after all, she had stayed below deck, as instructed by Uma as soon as she had blanched at just the sight of the sword the captain had offered her. While she may have been—— adequate with a blade, battle made her queasy. 

“ _ **Rude**_ ,” he repeats with a chuckle of his own, rolling eyes like the sea as if just the use of the word itself was as ridiculous as even the notion that one of the crew might describe her with it. “Besides, ye’re part of the crew; it’s our ale.” He reaches ringed fingers to tuck a stray tendril the shake of her head head had shook loose behind her ear, the motion so unfamiliar she can do nothing but watch. “Ye gave me extra reason to win the bout, could'nae let them sail away with the  _ Revenge  _ with ye still in it.” As if remembering himself, his grin returns easily, replacing the soft look that had slipped on and off his features so quickly she might have thought she imagined it. 

“Drink up, pirate.” He offers her his tankard slyly, very clearly a dare, and she takes it apprehensively. Bringing it to her lips, Evie nearly wrinkles her nose in disgust at just the smell alone, but manages to tip it up and take a sip. The drink is acidic and just as disgusting as it smelled, and it absolutely shows on her face as she winces at the taste.

“That is foul,” she complains, the taste lingering on her tongue as she wipes it from her lips with the back of her hand. Harry is nearly bent over with laughing so hard in response, one hand actually holding his stomach as he guffaws. Where she should feel anger at this swashbuckler chuckling at her pain, she keeps her hand at her mouth, but this time to stifle her own laughter. It’s nice to hear him laugh, too, and know that she’s made him do so, even if it was not intended. “You’re a scoundrel,” she complains fondly, shoving at his shoulder as he finally stands tall again.

He has to bring up his hand to wipe at stray tears his laughing fit brought about, the kohl around his eyes smearing even further, and with a final chuckle, he tips his hat to her. “A thousand apologies.” He searches inside his crimson overcoat, finally finding whatever he’s looking for in the breast pocket, and his fingers draw out a silver flask imprinted with a grand ‘ H ‘.  “Perhaps her highness would prefer the stronger stuff?”

This is an even greater dare, and Evie rolls her eyes again as she takes it from him, shaking it once to weigh its contents. Half full, and she absolutely despises him because of course she has to do what he doesn’t expect of her. Steeling herself, she tips the flask up and downs it to the last dregs. With barely a grimace she offers it back to him, smiling finally at the surprise on his face. 

“Now tha’ was  _ rude _ ,” he replies finally, looking down to the flask and back to her, something like amused pride lighting his eyes. She shrugs, sly smile only growing in response.

“Pirate,” she offers as explanation. Harry smiles wider, chuckling, but before he can give his own witty retort ( or as close to witty as a scoundrel can be. ) an unexpected wave jostles the ship.

Harry grabs hold of one of the rungs of the stair rail to steady himself, but Evie is not so quick. Set off kilter, he slips his free arm around her waist to keep her steady. As the ship settles back to its rhythm, and with his hand settling so perfectly on her waist, and her chest against his, she can’t keep her heart from stuttering. He smells of cologne and iron and the salt of sea air and sweat and it’s so real, not a dream, not a wish. To be so close to him is not something she should ever have allowed herself, because everyone knows that fire is all-consuming when it catches. 

Looking up at him through her lashes, heart beating against her chest, and her fingers splayed against his chest, is it her fault that she loves him? Is it her fault that her breath catches in her throat? Is it her fault that he’s handsome and sly and so occasionally kind? Is it her fault that she wants so badly to kiss him, for him to want to kiss her too? **_Is it her fault?_ ** There’s something wistful in the breath that passes her lips, parting them ever so slightly, and Hook’s eyes are as unreadable as ever as they hold hers as gently as his arm around her. It’s so quiet, even among the bustle of the celebration mere yards from them, and time seems to slow as his hand releases the rung. His fingers trail up her neck to settle at her cheek, thumb caressing the skin there.

“Don’nae give me that sweet soft thing. I will’nae know what tae do with it,” he breathes, his chin lowering ever so slightly as his eyes slip to her mouth. He looks like a man finding salvation as those sea blue hues flicker back to meet hers, entreaty and uncertainty tinting them darker than she’s ever seen them. “Always seem tae break the things I covet most.”

“That’s alright,” she whispers, swallowing thickly. Her fingers curl into the cotton of his tunic, almost as if they were meant to, as if they belong there. She’s so weak, how she can’t see anything but his eyes and then his lips and finds she wants them more than anything. Pressing onto the tips of her toes she draws even closer. “It works best when it’s shattered, anyway.”

Achingly slowly his mouth lowers to hers, and anticipation builds in her chest so headily. Their lips are close, so close, and how many times has she dreamed of this? How many times has she forced herself to believe that it would never happen, that he hated her, that——

“Where’s my first mate gotten off to?”rings through their crafted silence, breaking any spell they might have sewn and so abruptly Harry pulls away, Evie doing the same, if not more regretfully. With a deep breath she wills the flaming blush from her cheeks, turning away to fan them as Uma’s footsteps turn around the corner of the stairs.

“Oh,” she says, confusion evident in her tone before she catches herself. Evie can practically feel the knowing smile growing on her lips, like a shark that’s finally caught her prey as she turns to her, too, hoping that the dark is enough to hide the flush on her face. “There you are,” the captain finishes.

Harry clears his throat, attempting to lean back against the stair rail suavely, but it is too little too late as Uma eyes him with brows furrowed in clear disbelief. “Uh huh,” she says doubtfully, as if in answer to his try. Next her eyes swivel to Evie, who shrugs her shoulders with a chuckle. Shaking her head, teal braids bouncing merrily with the motion, Uma turns on her heel and struts away.

It’s quiet for a moment, which is almost worse than their moment being ruined, honestly, before Evie slides down to sit on the deck, her head just beginning to grow a little off-kilter with drink. A giggle passes her lips, one she can’t even hope to contain with her hand as it grows joyfully into a fit. “Have——“ she struggles to gasp out the words among her laughter. “Have your legs always been so skinny?”

“What?” He spurts indignantly, whipping around to face her. He scoffs down at her, placing his hands on his hips, a rueful smile stealing away any pretense of irritation. “M’ legs are no’ skinny.”

“They are.”

“Are no’.”

“Are too!”

“Are no’,” he says finally, after a moment’s hesitation, the smile growing fonder as he, too, moves to settle down beside her, his back again against the rail. She shifts, rests her head against his shoulder, closes her eyes. It’s not so bad, what might have been. Again she’s reminded that he doesn’t love her, that he looks out for her, and really that should be enough. He sighs, and she can feel him shift, too, rest his head back to peer at the stars. “Why did ye have tae be a princess?” he hums, low enough that she can barely hear it.  
  


 

Halfway through the last of the breakfast hour, Evie rests her chin in her hand after a long yawn, and a warm body slides closer into her space, nudging against her shoulder. She looks up to find Harry’s stormy eyes and gives him a tired smile. The seas had been rough last night, and the jostling motion of the ship had made getting her beauty sleep especially trying. Adding the need to rise before dawn to prepare the meal only made her more weary.

“Perk up, princess,” he hums, but instead she leans into his side, closing her eyes as she rests momentarily. He chuckles and the sound reverberates through the two. She really could fall asleep right now if he let her.

“Consider this: I don’t want to,” she mumbles halfheartedly. It isn’t uncommon to find Harry shuffling to the galley so much later than everyone else. Lately the first mate had taken more and more overnight shifts, which left him the only one to pester her for breakfast once he woke up from sleeping in. The only difference is that usually he’s the one yawning pathetically. Just as she can feel herself drifting off to the smell of him and an unfamiliar sea shanty hummed under his breath, two sets of footsteps come scrambling down the stairs.

“Harry!” comes Uma’s voice first, startling Evie fully awake again. She blinks her eyes wide to find their captain’s face uncommonly somber, serious as she looks to her first mate. Her tone is quieter once she’s caught his attention, and Gil, standing behind her, is wringing his large hands. She has never seen him look so uneasy before. “Gil spotted the  _ Jolly Roger _ on the horizon.”

Harry immediately stiffens, his hand groping for the hook he’d left practically forgotten on the table beside him. Even the ship’s princess knows what the  _ Jolly Roger _ was,  **_everyone_ ** in Auradon did. “We have an hour, maybe two if the winds die down,” Gil adds, looking between his two friends. Harry nods shallowly, looking to Uma for confirmation. With every second he becomes more and more distant, from his posture, to his gaze, to the thoughts Evie can practically feel warring in his mind. 

“I want the whole crew on deck when they board,” Uma orders, and Harry nods again. Blinking slowly, practically setting her thoughts together before them, Uma finally turns again, stalking up to the deck with her usual swagger. There may have been some discomfort on her features, but still she was as dauntless as ever. A stronger sailor, Evie doubted, ever sailed these seven seas.

“Aye aye captain,” Harry replies after his captain, getting up abruptly and leaving her already missing the warmth he had provided. She watches him hurry up the stairs, too, grabbing his hat off a hook before he began his ascent, and a wanting sigh just passes her lips, thankfully lost to the clatter of his boots on the wooden steps. Just before he is out of sight, she catches him turn back, and the look he fixes her with might have been unreadable again if she couldn't see just a wrinkle of worry furrowing his brow before in a flash he was back up to the deck. 

Gil, still standing across from her, sees the whole small exchange, and he reaches to clasp her hand in reassurance. “Uma means you, too,” he informs, chewing on his next words to mull them over before he speaks again. “It might be a good idea to stick to the back of the crowd.”  
  


 

She can feel the unease on the deck, the anxiety like mist gathering on the ship. She stands behind the three, her curiosity drawing her forward where the rest of the crew shrinks back. ( Gil’s advice pricks at the back of her mind, only to be pushed aside. ) There’s the barest trembling shaking Gil’s form, barely noticeable if she weren’t so close to him. Hook’s sharp jaw is clenched, his posture uncharacteristically rigid. Even his stormy eyes are reigned in, no longer unsettling but simply hard. Uma is the only one who looks the same, unflappable and an easy smile quirking her lips. The only hint that she might be nervous is the extra bite to her grin, teeth glinting like a shark’s in the sun’s glare. 

The  _ Jolly Roger _ is imposing from its spot anchored next to the  _ Lost Revenge _ , beginning to cast a grim shadow over them as the other ship’s crew works to stretch wooden planks between the two vessels for crossing. A squat, portly man with white hair and a jaunty red cap comes across first, teetering a few times before making it all the way, and he holds the board steady as the most fearsome man to sail the seven seas struts aboard. Blood-red overcoat and long curling hair like onyx, streaks of gray barely frosting it, beneath a crimson wide-brimmed hat, even without seeing the stark silver hook in place of his hand one would know Captain James Hook immediately. A shiver runs up her spine, and the chill remains in her bones as he approaches, flanked by a few fearsome pirates of his own. 

It seems that Hook would address his son first, grant him some form of dark affection, any expression of fondness, but no. He stalks to Uma first, tips his grand hat in a gallant bow and offers her a toothy grin. Uma stays cool as the steel at her side, only dipping her head slightly as her lips pull into a sure smirk. “Commodore. What a surprise. What brings you so far from Neverland?”

“Does a pirate need reason to pay a visit to his only son?” The man’s eyes narrow slightly as ice blue connects with identical ones set in a younger face, but the grin never falters before a rumbling laugh cracks through it. The laughter is cruel, and Evie watches Harry’s jaw clench even further, almost painfully so. (It’s uncommon for him to so control his temper.) “There’s a very tempting rumor traveling the seas. I want the  _ Revenge _ in on the plan ,” he explains deviously, making it abundantly clear what a joke the first explanation offered had been. 

“Son,” the man finally says, shifting his attention to Harry. His eyes barely skim over Gil, the brawny lad clearly nothing but muscle in Hook’s eyes. Even then, the single word carries with it no fondness, almost mocking in how flippantly he tosses it. For his part, Harry takes it like a stray to scraps, and from her place behind them, out of the pirate’s line of sight, she can watch Harry, read the warring feelings run up his spine as it straightens so imperceptibly. She wonders if Hook even notices how thirsty his son is for his respect, his acknowledgement. ( She wonders if her own mother could read it in her, see just how much Evie would have done for her love, to please her. Was that why Grimhilde could scar her so easily? Because she knew that her daughter still would be unable to hate her even after that ultimate betrayal? ) 

But perhaps she is thinking too loudly, a habit the queen had constantly reprimanded her for. It unsettled men, her mother warned. They could never trust a woman whose mind worked as diligently as her open mouth. Before he can continue his assessment of his son, Hook surveys their crew and locks eyes with her. His jaunty, disarmingly sinister charisma slips, a grimace curls his lips below a dark mustache, and he brushes Gil out of his way with a flippant slap to his impressive bicep. 

For a moment of startling clarity she wonders what she expected. Had she truly assumed anything less than the disdain James Hook’s eyes gleam with, so similar to the look the crew had fixed her with when Gil had dragged her from the ocean and set her on their deck? Two months on a pirate ship has made her no less a princess, has certainly not carved a swashbuckler out of her trained grace. She stands as if on pointe, each foot making the strokes of a T, certainly not the wide, ready stances of the rest of the crew. Her fingers laced behind her back, genteel and docile, are nothing like the sure hands settled on hips or arms crossed across strong chests. She doesn’t fit, has done so little to mold herself in their image, and she had been vain enough to think it strength.

“And what is this?” There’s a sinister touch to the innocent question, demanding in meaning even if not necessarily in tone. If possible the three tense further before following his gaze behind them. He takes the steps towards her, and it takes all her royal will to not step back, to remain upright rather than cower in fear. She had thought Harry terrifying enough with his penchant to disregard personal space, but she sees now from where the habit came. Again she must remind herself who she is, whose daughter she is. ( Royal blood and magic palms somehow seem little comfort for the cruel curve of a dangerous hook. )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter went only vaguely where i thought it was going to go tbh ?? so you'll have to excuse that the teaser i posted will only really be a teaser for the next chapter ( which i have 3/4 done ) !! sorry about the delay, this fic is quickly becoming the bane of my existence with how finicky my muse for it is, but man when the muse comes i just ADORE writing it. anyway please comment your thoughts and opinions and maybe even predictions for what's going to happen in the next chapter !!
> 
> also a HUGE SHOUTOUT to ForerverDelighted b/c her new fic pistols and poisons ( and the possibility of an update on hooks and hearts !!!! ) literally gave me so much muse to write this and got me so excited about hevie again !!


	5. iv.

“Ye’re too pretty tae be a pirate,” Captain Hook appraises her, all deadly charm. “ No offense tae ye, Uma.” Somehow he manages to make his son seem as dangerous as a kitten in comparison, but Evie doesn’t allow any fear to show on her features as he tips up her chin with his hook, the metal seeming unnaturally cold against her skin. The notorious man peers down his hooked nose at her face, tutting loudly when her scars become more evident. “Damaged goods. What a shame.”

“Harry, I thought we’d had a talk about that temper of yours?” he barks out a laugh as he rounds back on Uma, Harry, and Gil, but somehow Evie knows she’s not off the ( no longer so proverbial ) hook. Something like disgust curdles in icy eyes as Harry’s expression blanches at the implication, and something not entirely different starts crawling up her own throat, except her feeling burns hot, seeping slowly to her skin. Uma’s grin cuts sharper into her cheeks, unmistakably vexed, and even Gil stiffens, no longer a tremble in his stance as his easy smile grows stony. Harry’s father relishes in all the reactions. After all, what can they do really? “Got a little rough with your toy? Put some use to your hook?”

“Commodore, I’ve offered her passage on my ship as part of our crew,” Uma informs him, voice cool and controlled. She doesn’t look at the princess. Harry does. Her lips are pursed,, but there isn’t fear in her eyes. Perhaps there ought to be. 

“Your ship?” This brings Commodore Hook’s eyes back to Uma, and there’s ice in their inky darkness, settling into the lines around his mouth and eyes. He stalks into her personal space, bending so that his face is inches from hers. She doesn’t flinch, simply hardens her gaze to match his. If only such a thing were possible. “There is no ‘your ship’. My fleet. My ship. My crew. Don’t  **_ever_ ** forget that.”

Their captain’s eyes narrow and her lips grow tighter, but there’s nothing she can say to disagree. 

( Evie vaguely remembers mutterings at the captain’s table, hushed discussion on what exactly was owed to who she now realizes was Harry’s father. They are the strongest of his father’s crews, the most successful ship in his father’s fleet, all due to Uma’s leadership and his experience at the codfish’s side, Uma herself had argued. Harry was quick to parry back, though, his tone tight with something like fear. The ship was his father’s, not a gift but a loan earned only through complete obedience to his trying will. ) 

As if knowing his son’s own words in his defense, a satisfied grin grows on Captain Hook’s weather-worn face as he straightens to his full imposing height. “No pets on my ships. You feed my crew. There’s no room for playthings, no matter how pretty they might have been.”

With a jerk of his head toward her, black curls barely bobbing with how little energy he puts into the motion, a man from Hook’s crew steps forward, blonde hair lanky with grime and teeth, where they were not missing, black with decay. “The plank,” Captain——— no  _ Commodore _ Hook says so easily. Before she can even react the man’s hand is a vice on her upper arm, broken nails digging into the tanned and tender skin painfully. He begins to pull at her, and everything is so disgustingly familiar.

“No!” is ripped from her throat, the word desperate and angry as she tries uselessly to rip her arm away from his grip. Again she is no match for corded muscle, and even as she struggles to keep her ground he begins to drag her step by step closer to the edge. ‘ Not again! Not again! Not again! ‘ becomes a deafening mantra in her brain, pounding against her skull enough to make her wild as a caged animal. 

Prussian locks whirl as she struggles, as she whips her head with wide eyes to find the Sea Three, the affectionate nickname their crew had gifted them ( one even Evie had found herself referring to them with quite fondly ). They remain where they were standing, all except Gil, who takes half a step forward before petite fingers tug at his bicep. He looks back to Uma, brow furrowed, and he and Evie watch as the captain subtly shakes her head. Gil’s honey eyes are helpless as they shift back to Evie, his mouth wavering and his shoulders slack in defeat. It hurts near as bad as the pirate’s grip on her arm, the exhaustion gnawing at her bones from putting up such a fight. Betrayal sinks in her stomach as she finds Uma’s eyes watching her. ‘ It can be your home, too. ‘ echoes in her chest. To think she had believed her. Pride battles with desperation on her tongue until one final tug brings her near enough to the plank that her heart shudders.

“Captain!” There’s devastated entreaty in the word, and she pulls away again, or at least attempts to. Uma frowns, but looks away just as fast, her fingers tightening on Gil’s arm and her eyes connecting with Harry’s. Evie hates them. Evie hates herself. Evie hates that she had so easily put her trust in those who would so easily throw her away. Would she never learn? Would she never see that all she was good for was her beauty ( even that no longer what it was )? Not near good enough to fight for. Only so far as things were easy did anyone want her. Once she had served her purpose she was worthless, it seemed.

“Harry.” She hates how weak she sounds. She hates that she even said his name, for only the most base urge would draw it past her lips when she has never once before called him by his first name. To do so is to admit to herself that she cares. To do so is to admit that her traitorous heart only loves those who cannot love her. His name draws up his light eyes, and for a moment they lock with hers. She had hoped that one day she would be able to read them, a silly romantic fantasy. His fist tightens around the hook in his hand as his eyes flicker away to meet his father’s and for the first time she realizes something.

She isn’t the weak one here. They’re pathetic, all three of them. ( At least Gil had made no pretense that he might be the opposite, but the other two. They played so strong and hardened. They played that they controlled their own destiny, that they ran their ship. ) They were pawns, too afraid to cross the board and become queens. They played under this notorious pirate’s thumb, and she really, truly hates them. She really truly pities them because no longer will she allow herself to be played by those so beneath her, those she had unwittingly looked up to. 

“Let go of me,” she orders the blonde pirate, shoving away at his hand again. One last chance for him. A chance he ought to take. 

He doesn’t, instead hauling her up onto the plank, but before he has a chance to draw his blade and press it to her back to urge her forward she does something she swore she never would. Desperation tightens her chest so she can barely breathe and her fingers shake with a combination of dread and adrenaline as she turns, catches his face between her hands and in an equally fluid motion, presses red lips to chapped ones. His breath smells of rot and the rough hair of his unkempt beard scratches at her skin. It is a sickening feeling, not what love is meant to be, nothing like the stories her older step sister told her of true love’s kiss those sweet years ago. This is a kiss of her mother’s creation, cruel, and it turns her stomach to be so like the queen.

The man stops stock still, and Evie draws away enough so that their lips are but a hair away. “ _ Blood red lips. Satin skin. Stolen breath her seductive sin, _ ” she murmurs against his mouth, the spell burning her lips as she draws away. He gasps immediately, his hand releasing her arm immediately as it moves to clutch at his throat. His mouth opens and closes like that of a landed fish and Evie can only grimace, shoving him away as she forces herself to harden her heart. The toll on her conscience will have to wait. Vaguely she recognizes the shock of the crew around her, a few rushing forward to help their crewmate as those on the  _ Lost Revenge _ look to Uma for direction. With the confusion an adept distraction, Evie surges forward, sea legs leaping down from the plank and sprinting toward a red overcoat as her fingers deftly find the crimson dagger at her side. In a flash she’s before Captain Hook, the blade pressed just below his ribs and angled to strike deep. 

Her chest heaves, just the barest of trembling in slim fingers, and she’s breathing hard, in stark contrast to the only other sound upon the deck which is that of a man strangled to death by an invisible force. ( by magic ) The crew, she imagines, is caught between watching the pirate’s gasping demise and her own attempt on Hook’s life. 

“I’m not anyone’s toy,” she seethes, teeth bared. Hook doesn’t know her. This should have thrown him off balance. He should be wary. There should be at least a sliver of fear in eyes sickeningly like Harry’s own, even among the madness. Captain Hook’s battered fingers are quick as a viper when they strike, becoming a vice around her lovely neck before Evie even has a chance to sink the blade deep.   
  
“Nah, ye’re something else.” 

His skin burns against her throat, tight grip nothing in comparison to the embers of his fingertips. As she hisses in pain his smirk grows wider, the dagger slipping from her fingers to land on the deck with a clatter. Where she can see so much of Harry in his features, she has never seen something this cold in his eyes. “ **_Faedamned,_ ** ” she accuses through gritted teeth, fingers reaching to claw at his wrist for release, careful to avoid any further contact with his exposed skin. 

“You kill one worthless pixie and the whole lot curses you,” he agrees with a low chuckle. There is no guilt or shame in his words. “But you’re faetouched. Thought you were——— well, it doesn’t matter. Now I know. What does perfect skin cost?”

Evie glares at him, lips tight with pain and ire. He rewards her silence by spreading his fingers on her neck, the further touch practically sizzling, revealing darker freckles than the glamour had ever allowed to show where his hand had touched, perhaps even a hint of one or two scars of acne and stray nicks. “Ten years of my mother’s life,” she spits finally, if only to appease him and stop the burning. His hold lessens slightly, a reward for her compliance, for her obedience.

“Good girl,” Hook hums condescendingly. The ship is silent, one last guttural gasp from the blonde pirate as his dying breath and the commodore chuckles darkly. “And this? A fun little trick I will say.” Finally his hand leaves her throat, only to reach higher, press his thumb against her red lip. She gasps out, tears pricking her eyes, and she jerks to move away. Anticipating her attempt he clutches her chin, holding her in place, his thumb only pressing harder against her mouth. “How much?”

She stalls again, not wanting to share her secrets, not wanting anyone to know just how much her mother had given for her daughter’s beauty. Most of all she just wants his hands off her. The control he has on her makes her knees weak and stomach roll, along with the knowledge of what he’s made her do. Dark eyes look past him, perhaps for strength, perhaps for some bit of hope. She finds Harry, allows herself this one weakness ( tells herself it’s only the pain making her so soft ) and the look on his face is murderous, the mania the crew gossiped of more prevalent than she’s ever seen it. And yet he doesn’t look at her, only looks past the scene before him to the sea, as if he can’t bear to watch. Her eyes sting, and she blinks back what tears threaten, though as one escapes he finally meets her gaze. She imagines his eyes soften at the sight of her, but that is too much even for her. Quickly she looks back to his father, if only to keep any betraying thoughts of tenderness in Harry Hook’s eyes.

“Twenty. Of mine,” she admits bitterly, her lip wavering as a tear tracks down her cheek. That and a little piece of her soul, Maleficent had said. She had been right. Hook grins darkly, finally releasing her, though her mouth still feels sorely tender, and she can only imagine that it has lost all of its supernatural red tint.

“30 years,” Hook ponders aloud, striding to Harry, finally giving the boy the attention he had been so thirsty for. Evie fights to stay standing, though her knees knock as her fingers trace the abused skin of her neck, trying desperately to soothe the inflamed skin in any way she can. “All gone in two little strikes,” Hook clasps his son’s shoulder roughly. This is what he wanted, wasn’t it? “Good lad.” 

Bitterly Evie can only glare at Harry as her throat constricts. He doesn’t say anything in disagreement, does nothing but pull his lips tighter and look at her. If he would just say one thing. One word. One admittance that he would never do this to her. One reminder of the seriousness in his voice when he’d given her the dagger. 

‘ If any man lays his hands on ye again, cut them off. ‘

How can this betrayal hurt worse than what Chadwick had done? Was it that she had truly believed that he meant those words, that she could trust him to look out for her even if he could never love her? Why didn’t he do something? How could someone so strong be so scared, so weak? For all that feared him, he bowed under his father’s thumb so readily. She hates that he’s made her hate him.

“The only thing worse than something faetouched------” Captain Hook’s hand shifts from his son’s shoulder to his face, his thumb glancing across Harry’s eyelid. The boy winces, Hook drawing away his hand to pat him harshly on the cheek. The moment is so quick she nearly misses it, and odd, too, in its own right, enough so that she dismisses it as simply a clumsy motion, an accident.

“------is something faeblessed.” Harry finishes the sentence without a second thought, without any emotion, without even looking at her. He doesn’t see how what he says cuts her deep, doesn’t care. His father pats his cheek again, twice in quick succession as an indulged smirk grows again on his lips.

“Uma,” Hook calls abruptly, stepping away from Harry and glancing back to his captain instead. He snaps the fingers of his good hand, motioning below deck with his hook, and, without any allowance on her behalf, swaggers to the stairs beside the helm. 

Uma’s frown sinks deeper into her features, frustration and shame and anger swimming in the jet black depths of her eyes. ( She is like the ocean even now, with the ebb of a rising wave hiding a dangerous current deeper still. ) As the portly man follows Hook and his plumed hat, Uma places a hand on her first mate’s shoulder as she passes, squeezing lightly in reassurance as the two move as one to follow. ( Like tide and tempest, but what is the strength of a raging storm when it is bottled? )

 

Evie, through it all, manages little more than to stay standing, watching with the crew as their leaders depart and feeling infinitely more alone as furtive eyes again are on her, the silence of the deck deafening. Where finally the crew begins to dissipate, return to their roles, she finds herself wavering, moments away from breaking down.

“Got you,” she hears murmured by her ear, burly arms sweeping her off her feet before she even can formulate a complaint. It’s Gil, steady Gil, that carries her down below, his stride a gentle rhythm with the rock of the ship that nearly makes her feel better. ( She wonders if she will ever again feel better. It sounds simple enough, but just out of reach all the same. ) Through a door and settled on a yellow-hued blanket she recognizes his quarters, smaller than what little she had seen of Uma’s, and most likely Harry’s, too. ( She especially wonders if thinking of Harry will ever not strike deep in her chest and linger there like a barb. ) The space is cozy still, sparsely furnished, but the warm earth tones of his belongings making one feel safe, at home even. The princess brings her knees to her chest, fingers never leaving her neck. The skin there still stings, throbs like a bad burn. Gil asks nothing of her, watches with soft eyes that she can feel even as she refuses to bring her own up from the floor.

He shuffles around his room, opening drawers and shutting them, gathering things together as she attempts to take her own deep breaths to calm herself. ( Each breath wavers and feels too much like she will never be able to draw enough air again. ) Finally he returns to her, sitting a reasonable distance away from her on the bed and unpacking what he had found between them. When she still says nothing to acknowledge him and does little to show that soon she might, he sighs forlornly.

“Can I?” he asks, shifting closer, and when she does look to him she finds a jar of something in his calloused hands. She frowns slightly before finally nodding, her fingers still trembling even as she lowers them to her lap. Gil smiles, small and surely meant to be reassuring. A part of Evie feels wrong to cause him such uncertainty, practically aches to be allowed this small comfort. The rest of her feels numb, not from lack of emotion but for the swirling mess of them all begging to be acknowledged. “Think it might help,” he offers quietly.

He is careful as he scoops out a dollop of green gel on two fingers, and equally tender as he smears the paste with a light touch onto the curve of her neck. She can’t help but flinch as it touches her, whatever it is being cold and uncomfortably slimy, but as the pirate smooths it over more of her skin she finds that it does help. The burning sensation moves to a dull throb, not exactly pleasant but certainly more manageable as Gil spreads one last bit onto her chin. 

“Thank you,” Evie murmurs, lips twitching as she tries for a smile that will not come. Instead, as if focusing on the pain had been the only thing keeping back the tears that had begun to fall from becoming a full on sobbing mess, she feels the uncomfortable tightening of her throat, tears hot at the corners of her eyelids. Evie sniffs to attempt to keep it together. Gil meets her gaze tentatively, and she watches his adam’s apple bob as he swallows. 

“What happened, Evie?” Gil asks softly, confusion so clear in his tawny eyes. Evie grimaces, her throat thick. The tears feel undeniable at this point, and even as she swallows, too, it does little to keep them at bay.

“He’s cursed,” she spits, trying to explain. “He’s evil and vile and---” It took only the most intense cruelty for the fae to issue such a sentence as faedamnation. ( The average fae knew little of human morality, most basing more of their actions on entertainment or personal gain than in pursuit of goodness. ) It named those faedamned as their natural enemies, stripped any possibility of fairy blessing from them and that burning touch was meant to be a warning to all those fae friends. That Captain Hook would use his curse to hurt even further, that there was no shame in his curse made him only that much more terrible. Her voice cracks, the girl choking on the words as finally the tears begin to careen down her perfect features. “He could have killed me.” 

Evie ducks her head to her knees, shoulders shaking as her breathing becomes ragged from emotion, from holding back a wail as the tears come faster and faster. Slowly, tentatively, those strong arms wrap around her again, enveloping her in a hug. She can’t remember the last time anyone had embraced her so, and as much as she craves the contact, leaning ever so slightly into him, it is also a cruel reminder. He draws back, his hand resting on her shoulder, reassuring again. “We were going to come back for you. Uma said. As soon as Hook wasn’t watching,” he fumbles desperately, trying to explain, trying to assure her.

An azure head whips up, the tangled mess of her curls bouncing along with it, eyes bloodshot as she suddenly pierces Gil with her gaze. He’s such a sweet boy, someday he will be such a good man. But not today. Today none of them were good enough.

“That isn’t enough!” she hisses, tone rising rapidly higher and higher until it is almost a screech.  With a stifled sob she feels her throat burn with the itch of emotion, with disappointment and rage and the fatal shards of a heart breaking over again  and threatening to crawl up through her words. “That isn’t enough, Gil!”

And that admission, that truth, brings only more wracking sobs, the force of them enough to make her limbs tremor as she bends to brace her elbows against her knees again, but even that is not enough to ground her, to quiet her tears. Face buried in her palms, she can feel Gil’s attention linger as he does, can almost feel the dismay rolling off him in waves as gentle as he is. She might have felt sorry for him if she could get any control of her emotions, if she didn’t deserve to cry for this lost dream. A rough hand reaches for her arm, touch tender, but she shoves it away harshly, wordlessly. A moment’s longer of hesitation, and his heavy steps leave the room.

 

She loses track of time with only her sobs to tick away, leaving her breathless and trembling when she again hears footsteps approaching the door. Guilt begins to gnaw at the pit of her stomach. Her mother taught her better manners than to linger in someone else’s room, even when it was deserved. She had taught her daughter to be selfless so that she could selfish, and even know the thought scratches at her until the door creaks and lighter footsteps than those that had left come to enter.

A tangle of dark locks, the glint of a metal hook secured at his waist, and lips like the devil’s set in a tight grimace.

“ _ **Harry.**_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is fine.
> 
> the next chapter's going to break my heart too so idk guess i'll die ???
> 
> as always, i hope you all enjoyed !! please please please comment any thoughts you had, predictions, how i need to give evie A FUCKING BREAK ( i'm so sorry e you deserve better you really do ) i will love you forever !

**Author's Note:**

> uhhhhh i didn't kill evie this time ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> Gil is my sunshine boy as usual, and this plot idea popped into my head while I was working on you just might see a ghost tonight and would not rest until I had at least a chapter done. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it and please tune in for part ii (it's coming at some point idk when?) !!  
> 


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